


Book Two: Corruption

by Aaron_The_8th_Demon



Series: Crushing the Doom Falcons [3]
Category: Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Chaos, Chaos Headcanon, Chaos Sorcerer - Freeform, Chaos Space Marines - Freeform, Corruption, Cult of Khorne, Cult of Slaanesh, Denial, Destiny, Developing Relationship, Explicit Language, Identity Issues, Injury, Insanity, Invasion, Original Chaos Warband, Other, Rage, Screw Destiny, Slow Build, Space Marines
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2018-09-24 17:38:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9776768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aaron_The_8th_Demon/pseuds/Aaron_The_8th_Demon
Summary: As Chaos continues to overwhelm the Doom Falcons' homeworld of Doma, necrons have also emerged from their tomb to search for their stolen technology. Yashtiri maintains desperate hope that he will be able to strike a deal with the Apostles of Death; Sergeant Tokarev becomes more and more disillusioned as to whether or not his planet can be saved; Vergerus begins to get closer to Luskar, despite the fact that the Khornate taint is beginning to set into his brain.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Tags/rating may change. This narrative is still being written so I don't know what all the tags are yet.

“So, how did it feel?” the voice suddenly hissed through the vox-bead in his ear.

Vergerus started for a moment, but relaxed without reaching for the chainaxe on his belt. He was on perimeter watch in the forest while Rahan and Dvinh were plotting their upcoming move.

“Is that you, Luskar?” he whispered, so softly the vox would barely be able to pick it up.

“Yes.” The Slaaneshi initiate switched to Imperial Gothic. “You went berserk earlier. If I didn’t already know you, I’d have thought you were a full-grown Khornate.”

“I don’t remember,” Vergerus confessed. He paused. “Why? I did my job. Have they found fault with me somehow anyway? They always seem to, just because of my birth origins.”

“No, I haven’t heard anything. I was only curious for myself. How do you feel now?”

“Impatient. I feel the need for more violence, but there isn't any. What about you?” he replied, then wondered why he'd bothered to ask.

“Bored, mostly. I’d rather not be standing around waiting. If we were on the ship I could at least share a meal with you instead.”

Vergerus almost didn’t notice that he was smirking, but then immediately became disgusted with himself at the warm tingling in his chest and his expression warped into a snarl.

“If they catch me chatting you up instead of guarding, they’ll have both our hides,” Vergerus grunted, ending the conversation. Just to be sure he unplugged the vox-bead from the jack in his gorget.

 

Luskar frowned when he heard the vox link cut from the other end. He was almost positive he’d detected a slight note of friendliness in Vergerus’ tone, but apparently the other man still had a strong (and confused) sense of denial. _Oh, well,_ he thought to himself. _All things in time. He’s learning already, however slowly._

Smiling to himself, he scanned the trees around him carefully. As before, there was no sign of hostile movement, which put him off slightly. Having been born into his cult, his senses were already several levels above an ordinary Chaos marine’s, so he knew it was impossible for anything to sneak up on him. It was such a shame, really. He’d always seen combat as a fun challenge, and his sonic blaster made it all the more engaging.

“6-13, report,” Rahan’s voice implored smoothly from the vox-bead.

“All quiet on the north point, sir. Are we moving soon?”

“Most likely. Breke’nthul has contacted us with some updated tactical info. Be ready to move within an hour.”

“Yes, sir.”

Luskar glanced around again, as always noting only the trees. They obscured his visibility enough that he would hear or smell any threats long before he saw them, but even that was enough that he could tell if a Space Marine was within half a kilometre of his position. He was well attuned to everything - the soft breeze gently swishing through his pale hair, the moisture beginning to collect on the surface of his armour. It would be dawn soon, and possibly rain. Not that it really mattered much. The city they’d helped crush had already finished burning to the ground over an hour ago.

If he was honest, though, only half of his brain was paying attention to the world around him; the other half, predictably, was on his would-be companion. It was somewhat unusual for a Chaos marine of Slaanesh to focus on an individual this way, but Luskar was still very young and hadn’t grown bored with the idea yet. Besides, even if he was only half as interested in Vergerus, the taboo aspect alone was enough to make him act on it. He was able to be patient with Vergerus’ conflicting worldview because he knew the longer he waited the more delicious it would be when the Khornate initiate was finally his.

He could hear growling voices across the vox, undoubtedly speaking in Khornate. One of them was screaming at the top of his lungs and was obviously Grozm, and the other certainly sounded impatient enough to be the object of his affection. Luskar just listened, not that he would have been able to join the conversation anyway, letting the sound of Vergerus’ voice seep into his mind. Even in such an angry tongue, he couldn’t help but enjoy it.

 

As before, Vergerus was assigned to the rear of the squad as they made their way through the forest and towards their next target. He was feeling his normal amount of disdain for the universe, but also noted a growing thirst for carnage starting to bloom in the back of his mind. His power armour was so coated in dried gore from the previous battle that it looked to have been painted that ugly red-brown, and each time he scratched his hair flakes and clumps of his victims’ blood would fall onto his shoulders.

The open vox channel was mostly empty in his ear, though occasionally he would hear orders being given or a squad leader reporting status updates. The majority of the time it was just quiet static, and Vergerus had more or less tuned it out of his brain. Rahan started speaking, though, and he was forced to pay attention then.

“Breke’nthul has ordered us back to the capital. There have been isolated reports of necrons breaching to the surface, and we’re one of the squads assigned to reconnoitre the situation. 6-13, switch with Grozm and take point. Your sonic blaster won’t destroy necrons, but the frequency it’s set to will scramble them at the very least and give us an advantage.”

“Yes, sir.”

Vergerus felt relieved that his brother would be nearer to him. He’d never fought necrons, but the Khornate havoc was old enough that he must have faced them at some point. As Grozm fell into position, Vergerus felt the other Chaos marine slap his shoulder pad in a friendly gesture. Thankfully, though, he stayed silent.

“Who’s Breke’nthul?” he couldn’t help but ask, addressing Rahan.

“The champion of the Possessed Chaos Space Marines. Normally Chief Havoc Skozicz would be giving the orders, but he was killed recently and the position hasn’t been filled yet.”

Vergerus frowned, but didn’t feel the need to say anything more. They marched the final two kilometres to the city in silence, and once they arrived the squad was greeted by a Tzeentchian Enclave standing guard. The six havocs stood immobile with their lascannons and missile launchers shouldered at the ready, while the apprentice sorcerer was grilling the two initiates about something. A pacified Helbrute stood guard alongside them, armed with a plasma cannon and a power claw.

“Rahan,” the apprentice nodded upon sighting them. “Confirm squad designation?”

“MS-12. What’s the latest intel?”

“One of the Plague Marine squads confirmed the presence of a small necron force in the southeast sector of the city. They eliminated the threat with their meltaguns, but it’s safe to assume there will be more of them. MS-29 has also gone missing around that area, so keep your eyes peeled for them. If they are discovered dead, hold position at the site if it’s possible and signal a Thunderhawk so that their weapons and armour can be salvaged.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Combined Ch. 3 with this one because they were both way too god damn short.

Luskar stood in his place obediently, tuned to any movement that could appear in his field of view. Predictably, they’d found MS-29 in the rubble of a building - or at least, what was left of them. While they hadn’t personally encountered the necrons, the signs of their presence were unmistakable and everywhere. It was a precise and calculated killing field, and Rahan had guessed that the Chaos marines had been cut down by gauss weapons before they could adequately defend themselves.

As Luskar, Vergerus and the three Nurlge havocs stood guard in a loose perimeter, Rahan and the four Khorne havocs were stripping the bodies of their wargear as swiftly as possible. The area would be difficult to defend if the necrons decided to return, so they needed to recover the armour and weapons with haste.

“ETA five minutes,” Rahan announced to them quietly over the vox. “The Thunderhawk will transport us to the nearest outpost here in the city before departing for the _Damnation._ We’re going to rendezvous with a Plague Marine squad and then execute a search and destroy against the necrons.”

Vergerus and Luskar shared a glance when they heard this - they didn’t need to say anything to know what the other was thinking. They weren’t thrilled with the idea of fighting beside Plague Marines without helmets and becoming colonized with some sort of exotic bacteria or a genetically-engineered virus. They’d been travelling with Nurgle havocs, but it wasn’t the same thing as those Chaos marines weren’t yet old enough to become viciously infectious to other post-humans. Vergerus’ expression said it all: _Fucking hell, anything else would be better._ Luskar couldn’t agree with the thought more.

But somehow, whether by the will of the Dark Gods or just dumb luck, the Plague Marine squad had been sent elsewhere to deal with a larger threat. Instead, they got the next worst option - two squads of Khorne Berzerkers. How this could possibly be effective against the necrons, Luskar couldn’t fathom. Grozm, Vergerus and the others immediately joined with their brothers, snarling ugly words and gunning their chainaxes in anticipation of combat. Vergerus’ armour was still covered in dried blood and his hair and face were also somewhat sticky with it, which appeared to help the Khornates accept him more than they had been.

Although it was hard to tell without knowing the language, that was the impression Luskar got, and he found himself surprisingly content with this fact. It might help the other initiate feel less frustrated. Vergerus looked completely natural like this - grouped with other Khornates, a chainaxe in hand and blood-soaked armour. But somehow, it didn’t bother Luskar at all.

 

 **+Greetings, lord,+** he thought, projecting his mind.

Surprisingly, the Chaos Lord turned out to be a psyker as well.

**+Ah, you’re the one we’ve been looking for. I can only assume you’re reaching out to us in the hopes of striking a bargain.+**

**+You’re quite perceptive.+**

**+I wouldn’t be in charge of a warband as large as a Legion if I weren’t,+** the Chaos Lord pointed out dryly. **+Spare me the ego-stroking. It’s a pitiful tactic that speaks ill of your intelligence. Now. What can you potentially offer that could be of value in exchange for your life?+**

**+Well, lord, presumably you have such a large band of followers because you accept rogue warriors and renegades into your ranks. In exchange for allowing me to survive, I would be willing to aid your cause against the Doom Falcons and help your warriors decode the technology in question.+**

**+Of course you will,+** the Chaos Lord chuckled maliciously. **+We know everything about you by now, and I could tell even before we spoke that you would be easily recruited. Save one thing.+**

**+Yes?+**

**+What, pray tell, have you stolen from the necrontyr?+**

Yashtiri hesitated - he knew that if he gave the answer, it was very likely he’d simply be killed and robbed of his prize. He knew there was only one way he could prevent it.

**+Once my safety has been guaranteed, I will reveal it. But only if my terms are met. You will send to me an ordinary squad of Chaos Space Marines, who will extract me from my current position. Should I detect a psyker in their midst, or any violent intent, I shall destroy the artifact and myself without a second thought.+**

**+Understandable. Very well, sorcerer. My warriors are engaged at present, but you may expect a rescue squad within the next two days.+**

Yashtiri and the Chaos Lord broke their psychic link, and he sank back against the twisted metal enveloping him. He didn’t trust the other traitor marine to keep his word, but it was still a better option than waiting to be destroyed by the xenos. He could feel them drawing closer; in spite of his psychic abilities, the necrons could still detect some vague signal from the resurrection orb and would eventually find him if the squad didn’t reach him in time.

 

“Brother-captain, when are the Imperial Guard making planetfall?” Tokarev voxed as Thunderhawk 3 zipped towards the surface.

“Once we’ve secured a beachhead in District 10 of Grominsk. 4th Squad will assist you and once you’re firmly entrenched we can begin the next phase of the defense.”

The briefing had told them to expect moderate resistance from Chaos forces, but the scout marines running reconnaissance had been ambushed and a full report wasn’t available. 4th Squad had only lost one brother, but aside from Tokarev’s unit the rest of the squads were alarmingly decimated. All but two scouts from 2nd Company had been killed, along with many more experienced warriors. They’d been facing impossible waves of Khornates and then mop-up from Rubric Marines; the Adeptus Astartes were the Emperor’s finest, but for all their armour, arms and training they were still inevitably overpowered by the masses of Chaos devotees.

There were many more in the enemy warband than the Doom Falcons chapter could muster, and not only were Chaos Space Marines identically augmented and trained, but their bodies were made tougher by taint and mutation. Possessed suits of armour in some cases, as well as the infamous Khorne Berzerker’s inability to sense pain, put them on a level above the average loyal marine. On top of this, the Doom Falcons were at further disadvantage from the enemy’s daemonic summoning abilities and the simple fact that they were bred to hunt tyranids and not Traitor Marines.

It mattered not. Sergeant Tokarev hadn’t gotten this old by being stupid or pessimistic, and he’d once taken down a Lictor after breaking his left wrist. This could be done as well, and he knew it.

The Thunderhawk swooped low - their plan of deployment was not covered in the  _Codex Astartes_ in any form, but this was the defense of their homeworld and so even the craziest tactics would be considered before too long. The pilot let down the gang ramp, at which point the eight astartes stepped out from the transit slots and flung themselves out into the air. They had no jump-packs, but it was a short enough distance that it probably wouldn’t so much as chip the paint on their armoured suits.

Thank the Emperor, when they’d spanked hard off the rockcrete streets and righted themselves, they were faced with ordinary Chaos Marines who had bolters and rusty knives. 4th Squad crash-landed almost right on top of them, and after that the world was smoke and deafening noise and the spray of blood.

Tokarev wasted no time. His squad needed no orders; they were sufficiently trained and experienced to handle themselves, even Vsevolodsky, so he immediately leapt into the confusion. The crackling knuckles of his power fist reamed into the faceplate of an enemy, shattering his spiked helmet and bruising the now-exposed flesh. Trying to punch again would be too slow, so his right hand came up on pure instinct to put a bolt of plasma through the heretic’s skull.

The HUD inside his own helm was already flashing wildly, but he processed the data in less than a second. Bolter shell did not penetrate the armour of his suit’s power-pack. Two more rounds smacking his breastplate, only one causing even a dent.

A second plasma shot grazed the neck of a Chaos Marine, who frantically began pumping off rounds from his rifle one-handed while pressing the other palm to the scorched wound. Tokarev was forced to engage a closer threat instead of finishing the traitor off, as two more Traitor Marines rushed him. One tackled the sergeant about the waist while his compatriot revved the motor of a chainsword. The whirring blades couldn’t crack his visor, the teeth weren’t strong enough and several only broke off, but even with his visibility so obscured Tokarev managed to practically incinerate the swordsman’s head with a point-blank shot from his pistol. In the space of the same breath he’s wrapped his huge fingers around the elbow joint of the one pinning him, crushing armour and bone. The injury was distracting enough that Tokarev threw him off and sent two bolts into the heretic’s twin hearts.

The sergeant was on his feet in time to see a brother from 4th Squad aiming for him, though the bolt shell downed an adversary he hadn’t known was behind him. A plasma gun missed taking his arm off by a hair, searing the paint and nearly a centimetre-deep gouge out of his shoulder pad. Tokarev’s trained eye planted his own white-hot burst on the Chaos Marine’s weapon, overheating it instantly into a fireball of burning gasses that obliterated its owners and immolated two nearby enemies.

A quick darting movement saw his power fist wrapped about the neck of a Chaos Marine whose armour had no protective gorget, snapping even those surgically enhanced bones with no effort. As the body dropped an exploding pain bloomed in his left knee, sending Tokarev to the ground when it refused to hold his weight.

A bolter round had caught the veteran astartes in the back of the joint, which was minimally armoured and one of the few weak points in his suit. A quick glance told him he was lucky not to have had his lower leg completely detached, but the damage was certainly extensive and would require triage. His mental conditioning had already taken over, though, and he could ignore the pain enough to keep firing his plasma pistol with an acceptable success rate.

Hands slid under his arms - Vsevolodsky. The young brother began working to move Tokarev back from the thick of the fighting, where he wouldn’t risk sustaining further injury. It was actually a careless move on Vsevolodsky’s part. Even as Tokarev opened his mouth to tell his subordinate to stay engaged in combat, a very unlucky bolter shell plunged through the eyepiece of the younger marine’s visor and sent out a thin spray of blood. The battle-brother died before he knew what hit him and collapsed fully atop the sergeant.

Even as Tokarev struggled to remove his comrade’s slack form, he could hear Lukashuk on the vox network: “Thunderhawk 3! This is Brother Lukashuk of 2nd Squad, we and 4th Squad require emergency extraction from our location in District 10! We’ve sustained multiple casualties and a necron contingent is approaching our position!”

“Roger that, brother, Thunderhawk 3 en route.”


	3. Chapter 3

“This is the second time we’ve been reassigned,” Vergerus grumbled in annoyance. “Can’t they just make up their damn minds? Yes, tactical situations change, but you would think given the absurd resources at the disposal of this warband that they would be able to simply deploy more warriors.”

“I DON’T KNOW HOW IT WORKS!” Grozm answered, shrugging. At least his screaming was muffled a little by the grille of his helmet.

“Presumably we’re closest,” Luskar ventured, glancing to him. “And bear in mind, this is also a form of training to keep initiates well-rounded. I understand if you’re not familiar with the idea of Chaos marines rescuing others, but it does happen on occasion. Besides, personally I’m much more inclined to this objective than hunting regenerative metal death-on-legs.”

“I suppose,” Vergerus grunted in agreement. He briefly looked at his compatriot. “Though, I feel it would still make more sense to deploy tougher or at least more experienced marines. Should we run into opposition, we may be unable to protect this new fighter.”

“Which is also the point in sending us. Should we prove ourselves unfit or incompetent, we’ll be ruled out of training and punished horribly. Apparently this recruit is quite valuable.”

Luskar smiled at him a little, completely unsolicited given the situation, though somehow Vergerus found it didn’t irritate him nearly as much as it had before. He inclined his head slightly to acknowledge the other young warrior’s speculation, but decided not to waste time on further discussing the issue. What did bother him was his inability to work out the logic and tactics of this mission for himself. The Ultramarines had been schooling him in combat strategy since the start, after all, and it should’ve been no effort. Instead, a tiny corner of his thinking mind simply told him it didn’t want to waste its time pondering the how’s and why’s. There was a mission, he would do it, and probably get to _kill_ in the process.

The realization only further unsettled him, though Vergerus caught a sympathetic expression from the other initiate that told him his emotions were too easily read. That was immaterial at the moment - he could almost _feel_ the taint sinking deeper into him, like a piece of wood beginning to absorb water from humidity in the air.

Luskar’s armoured palm rested briefly on his right shoulder pad in a gesture that was obnoxiously soothing for Vergerus. He didn’t want the future Noise Marine to be his only means to stall this slide into the Blood God’s pit, but if this truly was his sole option, he knew he may as well embrace it to the extent he was able. That didn’t mean he had to like it. Still, Vergerus nodded slightly to his compatriot in thanks.

The march to their objective was eerily uneventful and silent aside from the Khornates grunting occasional words to each other. Vergerus didn’t participate. He was still encrusted in dried gore, but that didn’t mean he would act like one of them all the time. Instead he simply kept pace with Luskar, mentally resigning himself to the fact of needing the other man as his ally at least. Vergerus wasn’t an optimist by nature, but he was trying to find something positive about the situation: it meant he’d get to eat real food, at least sometimes.

When he could no longer stand to keep thinking, Vergerus instead focused intensely on his surroundings. This world was actually quite beautiful, he decided, with its clear starry sky, twin yellow moons and the vast forest of silver birch trees all around. The air smelled relatively clean as well, though occasionally he caught a whiff on the breeze of some combat situation that had taken place far away and several hours ago.

They arrived before too long at the coordinates - a downed Thunderhawk in Doom Falcons colours, chromatic green and gore red with a splash of royal blue trim. Its cockpit was oddly crumpled, in a way Vergerus wasn’t sure came from any conventional weapon. Honestly he wasn’t sure a weapon had done that at all… and was proved right when the twisted plasteel and adamantium began to unfurl slowly. The screech and grind was almost unbearable to his enhanced senses, jagged edges scratching off each other until the whole cocoon was pulled open to reveal the heretic warrior inside. He wore the stereotypical hues of Tzeentch, force stave in his left hand and a combi-melta in his right, while obsidian antlers sprouted from his blue helm.

Rahan began babbling at the sorcerer in his cult’s language, prompting a brief conversation between the two. Vergerus was listening to the environment instead; head cocked slightly left and eyes unfocused, he could detect a faint crackling below his feet. It was an odd sound, one he hadn’t encountered before, though somehow it did give him a prickling unease…

This was all the warning he received before the earth split under his boots. Blackness, stretching down some unfathomable depth, but the faintest tinge of green light shone beneath the dark. The tear in the crust broadened, and so fascinated and unnerved by this development Vergerus was unable to react. He was plunging into it, arms flailing madly when he finally realized what was going on, vainly groping for purchase of handholds that were not there.

It felt like a lifetime, though it probably lasted only a handful of seconds if that. Then he was wrenched to a halt midair and swinging. Bending his neck backwards revealed Luskar’s unpainted gauntlet wrapped vice-like to his wrist, hauling him from the abyss and back onto more or less solid ground. There was a slight ache to his shoulder joint from the wrenching stop, but Vergerus could ignore it.

“Squad, brace!” Rahan was shouting over the vox in a frantic tone. “We have necrons inbound, our extraction is fifteen minutes out.”

Vergerus squeezed the grip of his borrowed chainaxe, gunning the motor. Luskar stayed at his side, tuning his sonic blaster, while Grozm and the other havocs aimed the muzzles of their weapons into the breach and began firing randomly. It wasn’t entirely unsuccessful judging by the ozone stink of burning and cracking metal, and would at least buy them a little time. Still, the split was much too large for them to completely cover, so contact was inevitable.

They came like the flies surrounding Plague Marines - swarms and clouds of chittering metal scarabs, that same sickly emerald glow faintly emanating from their bodies. They mobbed the Chaos marines, chewing aggressively at their armour to expose the flesh beneath. Vergerus found himself swinging madly, his chainaxe near useless against such creatures, and for every one he hit five or six more would join the fray. The layers of ceramite hadn’t been penetrated so far, but his head was exposed and he could already feel the mandibles slicing into his scalp. Tossing the axe away in frustration, Vergerus bellowed with frustrated rage as he clawed and thrashed to scrape them from his armoured body, tearing the one attacking his skull free in a spray of red and crushing it in his fists.

The whole world vibrated around him with no prior indication that it would do so, throwing Vergerus onto his back howling and clutching his head. His left ear rang loudly to drown out all but his own screams of pain, while his right had simply gone silent. He thought some of his innards were bleeding as well, and when he pulled back his gauntlets from the sides of his head they were spotted with blood from his ruptured auditory recepting organs. Curiously, the horde of necron scarabs that had been plaguing him had all fallen immobile. They were scattered about the ground encircling him, but seemed to be at least incapacitated for the moment. Strong arms lifted him to his feet - Luskar. His mouth was moving but no words found Vergerus; his left ear still whistled distractingly and his right offered nothing at all. The other initiate slapped something to the mag-lock on his waist, then tugged him by his arm away from the floating insects.

Luskar was trying to speak with him again, but still nothing got through. “WHAT?!” Vergerus screamed, barely able to hear his own voice, let alone anyone else’s. He smacked his ear in an ineffective attempt to clear the obnoxious whine. “SPEAK UP!”

The other man just shook his head impatiently, armoured fingers smearing blood from his neck and face much too gently. Vergerus tolerated this far longer than he should have before pushing Luskar away. His internal clock told him they had seven minutes to extraction; surely they could last seven minutes. His confidence in this was dimmed some, though, when two scarabs finally burrowed into one of the Khorne havocs’ breastplate a few metres from him, sending the warrior down and trying in vain to claw the monstrous little things from his chest cavity. His struggle was short-lived and ended as they emerged in a wash of gore.

Luskar, by contrast, was loosing controlled waves from his sonic blaster into the swarm, occasionally glancing other Chaos marines but effectively downing clusters of scarabs at a time. Two zipped towards the Slaaneshi initiate, but Vergerus reflexively smashed them away with his forearm and elbow. He was still bleeding from his eyes, ears and nose, not to mention how he spat red every other moment, so with his senses thrown off and without a viable weapon Vergerus was stuck covering his compatriot.

In what seemed almost a ball of green lightning, twenty skeletal figures appeared from nothing and surrounded the struggling unit of Chaos marines. This same green lightning flashed out from the barrels of their rifles, energy beams from an encircling wall of metal in black and silver and shiny deep purple. Here, at last, was an enemy Vergerus stood a chance against. Luskar now forgotten, he ripped his chainaxe from his belt and lunged for them. The axe smashed into robotic limbs while his free hand ripped cables and wire bundles free from exposed areas of their bodies, working to tear these unknowable entities into pieces even as his fingers and knuckles bruised within his gauntlet and his melee weapon sprayed broken teeth.

In retaliation, given he was so close and so swift that shooting in his direction was all but pointless, Vergerus found himself bludgeoned repeatedly by their weapons until he was on his knees. His nose was undoubtedly broken, as were two of the fingers on his right hand, and his chainaxe was no longer usable. Adrenaline and the combat drugs administered by his armour surged through him, then, a second wind of strength and rage overpowering the uncertainty from before. He swung his toothless axe still, beating them aside if nothing else, and only a small thread of clarity dragged him free of the desperate brawl as opposed to throwing himself headlong back into it. He would not survive if he did.

Even virtually deaf, Vergerus still felt the rumble of the approaching Thunderhawk. He climbed aboard first, limping even though he didn’t recall sustaining a wound to his leg, and the remains of the squad as well as their newly-acquired sorcerer scrambled in after him. The gang ramp had barely closed before they were already lifting off. Firrum, Dvinh, Grozm and Rahan had survived of the original eight havocs, as well as Luskar and of course the recruit. None had escaped unharmed, though somehow Grozm still managed to stay ignorantly blissful despite the fact that he was drooling blood through his steel fangs. Luskar seemed the least wounded of them, minor scrapes over his annoyingly beautiful features that were already half-healed and would doubtless fail to scar. By contrast, as Vergerus wrenched his right gauntlet off with a pained grunt, he discovered he’d actually broken every bone in his hand and dislocated the two fingers he’d initially assessed as broken. Immediately his hand swelled to twice its normal size so that he couldn’t fit the gauntlet back over it or even make a fist. The knuckles were purple-black, his fingers and thumb were blue, and now free of the compressing armour piece his hand was throbbing horribly.

Vergerus knew, if only by how numerous they were, that his wounds would require attention. That did not make him in any way eager to do so; the “apothecaries” and surgeons were notorious sadists from the Slaanesh cult who would rather experiment upon their patients than heal them. One never risked their attentions unless there was no option besides.

Upon their return to the _Damnation,_ Vergerus limped in agony away from the flight deck and returned his borrowed weapon to the armoury. He shed his battle plate and body sleeve, leading to the discovery of where a beam from one of the necron weapons had speared through the meat of his left thigh. It could have been worse, he assumed, given that a few centimetres off and it may very well have blasted his femur in two.

Naked and shivering with pain, he settled on the edge of his bunk to assess the rest of his injuries. Unable to see the back of his head, Vergerus felt about it with his functional hand and discovered that the wound, while mostly scabbed over thanks to his enhanced anatomy, actually exposed a small patch of skull amidst the sticky mess of his black hair. His shoulders and abdomen were moderately bruised where his armour was jointed or weakened by the scarabs prior to his bludgeoning, though there were no exterior cuts. His upper limbs, by contrast, were mottled with closed and open wounds to his skin, particularly around his elbows and forearms from beating back the insects and blocking the swinging rifles.

At least Vergerus had solitude for the time being. The barracks was otherwise deserted, all other initiates still fighting on the world below. That would be no help in determining whether his ears were healed, though, so he tested himself by snapping his fingers. The sound was dim, as though through a fog, but he had detected it all the same on his left. His right was still utterly useless.

Irritatingly, his time alone was short-lived. A change in scent and the soft vibrations of the deck indicated another initiate making his way in, though he easily recognized Luskar without looking. The Slaaneshi marine sat down on the side of the bunk across from him, carrying a small crate and still wearing the grey body-sleeve that went under his battle plate.

“I apologize for injuring you earlier,” Luskar offered, clearly speaking louder than normal given that Vergerus could only just hear him now. “But I didn’t know another way to save you from being ground into a pulp.”

Vergerus grunted in acknowledgment. “I feel pulped in any case.”

“Yes, I suppose you do,” Luskar smiled. He plucked a clean square of fabric from his crate and wet it with disinfectant, then stood to begin wiping the dried blood from Vergerus’ skin. “I thought you might prefer not to seek the… care… of Sodvom.”

“I’ve heard tales of him. They’re not appealing.”

“I should think not,” Luskar snorted, shaking his head as he cleaned the other’s face. “Fortunately, you will likely heal without the need for surgery. Excepting perhaps your hand, of course, but I’m well able to fix that myself.”

Vergerus opted to say nothing, instead sitting obediently as the other initiate tended his wounds. The one in his thigh required stitching to keep it from tearing back open should he need to walk somewhere, but otherwise the most serious ones required only adhesive synth-skin bandages. Then came his nose - Luskar was able to snap it back into place, which was painful but not unbearable. He suspected repairing his hand probably _would_ be unbearable, though.

“Remarkably,” Luskar smiled as he used a syringe to inject something into his arm, “the apothecarion _does_ stock anaesthesia. Sodvom and his cohorts simply refuse to administer it. I was able to steal some in any case. You’ve suffered enough for today.”

“So, I _should_ be allowed to suffer other days?” Vergerus grumbled sarcastically.

His hearing in his left ear had more or less normalized by now, so he did catch the quiet chuckle from Luskar. “Only if you wish to. I, personally, would rather you not, but I suppose it’s your life to do with as you wish.”

Curiously, this was slightly amusing. Vergerus found his mouth drawn into an uncharacteristic smirk. Perhaps it was due to the pounding throb of his hand finally having been silenced; that certainly hadn’t hurt his mood any. He watched passively as a cuff was fastened above his wrist to restrict blood loss before Luskar expertly peeled up the skin from the back of his hand. Blood certainly escaped, but it was only what had pooled initially, and watching his appendage deflate was a slightly odd experience.

His metacarpals were visibly cracked, though thankfully none had been snapped, so Luskar simply forced the two dislocated fingers back into place and applied ceramic calcite gel to the fractures in the bones. The compound would solidify within thirty minutes, bonding the cracks back together and providing a microstructure for the new bone tissue to form. He’d still be out of combat for two or three days, but by the end of them his hand would be completely healed and as strong as it had been before.

Once this had been done, the skin was folded back over and stitched (it had been left attached on one side). His fingers were next and took longer, largely because they had to be incised one by one, and the two that were previously dislocated _had_ been snapped. They were fused back together with the same mineral paste, and thin metal dowels were temporarily latched on as well to keep them in place while they healed. (Luskar assured him they would be easily and painlessly retracted after two days.) His whole lower right arm was splinted and slung across his chest so that he wouldn’t try using it, and it was done.

“Let me see your ear,” Luskar requested, gently turning Vergerus’ head. He wiped the dried blood out of it before looking in with a penlight. “Your hearing on your right should at least partially have returned when you wake up tomorrow. It’s nothing permanent.”

Currently disabled, even in this small capacity, Vergerus grudgingly allowed Luskar to help him back into his own body-sleeve. A slave was called down to repair his armour for him before they departed the barracks, Luskar carrying his leather combat boots and a clean pair of fatigue trousers for him to wear. They were cleansed in the warm tile-lined chamber Luskar had taken him to before, the slaves especially mindful of Vergerus’ wounds without even having been threatened. The dried gore was carefully combed from his scalp around the freshly-patched gash before his face was shaved and the last traces of blood washed from his ears and nose.

With some difficulty (as he mainly stayed sitting on the bench) Vergerus was able to don his fatigues with just one hand, but he was still forced to allow Luskar to lace his boots for him. His muscles all pulled stiff when he moved, a side-effect of remaining still to have his injuries seen to and then to be cleansed by the slaves, making him grimace slightly as he paced after Luskar deeper into the deck. Food was waiting for them, rich stew with meat from some type of livestock and mild herbs. In the gravy he could also smell mushrooms and starch vegetables.

“Excellent,” Luskar purred, dishing out two large helpings before he settled in the other chair. There was a plate of bread cubes in the centre and Vergerus realized he was somewhat grateful he would only need the use of one hand for this meal. “I do hope this alleviates some of your discomfort. Necessary nutrients and all that.”

Vergerus was too busy stuffing his face to answer, gulping down the delicious stew as though he’d been starved for months. Using the bread to mop up the remaining gravy, he tossed back a mug of liquor while the other Chaos marine spooned him a second portion.

“How’s your fist?”

“Still numb,” he admitted, setting upon his food more slowly than before and taking time to savour it. “But I suppose that’s to my benefit for now.”

“Quite,” Luskar nodded, sipping his alcohol. “The bruising may last slightly longer than the fractures, but it won’t compromise your combat effectiveness.”

“What is this?” Vergerus questioned, changing the subject as he lifted his stein slightly in indication. “I’m rather fond of it.”

“Blood whiskey, so called for obvious reasons. I thought it might be to your taste. It’s a concoction the slaves came up with, I believe.”

“Whose blood?” Vergerus wondered before drinking more of it, unfazed by this revelation.

“Human, nothing exotic. But there’s some type of additive they mix in as well, which gives it this taste. Depending upon the batch they’ll use more or less of it according to the Chaos marine who orders it.”

They ate more than their fill and Vergerus put away what had to be at least two bottles of the blood whiskey on his own before returning to the initiate barracks. He still limped, but found the idea of being seen with his weight supported on Luskar’s shoulder humiliating, so repeatedly turned down offers of help. He growled slightly at the motion of laying down on his bunk, his whole body sore, and didn’t protest to the other initiate baring his feet.

“Roll to your side.”

“Why?”

Luskar gazed down at him. “Trust me. This will help.”

Growling, Vergerus hesitantly obeyed, and shortly following the other’s fingertips were pressing and kneading into his muscular shoulders. It hurt, but it was a good hurt, he decided. This was the sensation of further pain being stopped before it could start. He relaxed by small degrees into the movements, already feeling the knots and cramps loosening. It reminded him vaguely of seeing this done as a child, his mother massaging his father’s neck and scalp to relieve migraines. That made his eyes snap back open and he jerked away with a grunt.

“Stop that.”

“I don’t think you want me to.”

“I don’t think you want your fingers cut off should you test me,” Vergerus spat, throwing himself onto his back in defiance. It was too intimate, too caring, and that unnerved him.

Luskar apparently understood he’d pushed too far, so without further argument he backed away and found his own sleeping space. Vergerus popped his joints as much as he was able and settled in for his four hours of half-sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Please realize, this is NOT a love story. Luskar is using Vergerus because he grew up in a cult that taught him to seek out new experiences for their own sake, and Vergerus is using Luskar as a means to stall his progression towards being a Khorne Berzerker. Chaos Space Marines are incapable of love.


End file.
